Badge of Courage
by Carolare Scarletus
Summary: Several years after the Second Wizarding War, he confines in his psychologist of his arresting inability to accept what others have deduced. From the scrawny first year to the strong man that he has grown into, Neville Longbottom finds what he is worth and discovers a part of him that he never knew.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Badge of Courage

Author: Carolare Scarletus

Music Composition: _Colors of the Wind_ sung by Tori Kelly; _Sound of Music_ sung by Lady Gaga

Pairing: None in particular, though Canon pairings apply, as well as Canon storyline.

Characters: Neville Longbottom, Harry Potter, Hermione (Granger) Weasley, Luna Lovegood, Ron Weasley, Hannah (Abbott) Longbottom, Draco Malfoy, Astoria (

Universe: AU (Can be considered Canon in respect for the ending of the Seventh Book).

Summary:

Follow the incredible journey that one troubled war hero takes to finally realize that his part in the Final Battle meant more to him that he wants to admit. Several years after the Second Wizarding War, he confines in his psychologist of his arresting inability to accept what others have deduced. From the scrawny first year to the strong man that he has grown into, Neville Longbottom finds what he is worth and discovers a part of him that he never knew.

 **Disclaimer (because I always forget)** \- I do not own Neville Long- I mean Harry Potter. Any usage of stunning wizards is strictly for recreational purposes and not to drool over in secret :O

I'm looking all of y'all cD!

As always, enjoy.

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v

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Badge of Courage

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'.¸-¸.'

Have you ever listen to grappled cries of the fallen?

Or felt the warmth of their blood stained cheeks?

Can you feel all the anguish of all the people?

Or come to terms of the broken siren?

Could you paint yourself with the colors of courage?

Could you accept the badge of the brave?

'.¸-¸.'

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 **London, England**

 **2013-Present time.**

Neville Longbottom sat there nervously with his palms on his trousers, a distinguishable look of discomfort blooming across his features as he ran his hands up and down to get rid of the moisture. The restricted supply of oxygen was wreaking havoc on his already fragile mind and if he didn't get seen soon, there was no telling what he would do. The walls were caving in slowly. The very roof seemed to be giving way. He had been waiting for nearly half an hour and it looked like he was finally going to meet the end of a seemingly long wait. He never wanted to admit that he had a problem, or that there was something psychologically wrong with him. Anyone who had served during the war was faced with a multitude of problems, and his just so happens to be anxiety and Posttraumatic Stress Disorder. For years, he has been crippled with nightmares and flashbacks and the only thing that he could do to numb the feeling of it all was talking about it. It hadn't come easy. Everyone dealt with it in their own unique way; he just so happened to have a penchant for numbers.

There were exactly one thousand, three-hundred and ninety-four stitches in the cloth that he held in his hand and it had not been washed in weeks. It was a dull peach-colored cloth that had become some sort of security blanket over the years. It had been something he picked up during his travels as an Auror and he still couldn't quite place why he has held onto it after all this time. He really hoped he could address that as well, if it wasn't too much of a problem for his psychiatrist.

After a while, even travelling had become too much and he resigned. Teaching, he supposed quite ironically, was his calling. Herbology, to be specific. He always liked Herbology.

Along with the cloth, there was something else that was keeping his mind at bay. The windows had just been cleaned; there was a slightly cheerfulness akin to sunshine to the waiting room that he hadn't noticed and there was a little boy who hadn't stopped staring at him since he arrived.

With a heavy sigh, he placed the cloth back into his pocket, drew his elbows to his knees and leaned forward. He winced at the soreness that ensued from stretching his tired muscles. He hadn't been to the clinic in weeks, and he was beginning to think that his Psychiatrist thought he forgot about him.

After so many years, he's had trouble sorting out the lies from the truth. He hardly knew which way was right and if it wasn't for the urgency from his friends, he wouldn't have bothered coming to the clinic at all. He was only buying time then, something that he had mysteriously ran out of as the years escaped him. At the well-rounded age of thirty-three, he never imagined that his life would turn out the way it did. No one did.

The muscles in his arms tensed and he winced.

For a moment, he let himself slip back into another frightful episode, remembering only then what his doctor said during their last appointment.

He stared unmoving out at the open horizon. The air around him remained eerily quiet, reminding him of a time that chaos had reigned. It still ranged disturbingly in his ear like a whisper from the past, only that it would never truly go away. This nightmare played over and over again. The blood, the decay; all he had to hold onto was what had just happened along with the weight of the Sword of Gryffindor.

Voldemort was dead.

That was all he could process at the time.

"You did a remarkable thing," Harry told him soon after the collapse of Voldemort. His deathly spirit lingered like an obnoxious fume as everyone tried to piece together the remains of their lives and structure of their beloved home. "You took down one of the most ruthless wizards of our time."

"Then tell me why I feel so torn." He bit out angrily. "I don't feel like I did anything to deserve credit. It was all you, Potter."

The dark-haired hero looked taken aback. Never in the years he has known him did Neville ever refer to him with such hatred. There was such venom in his words that he didn't know what to say other than," It wasn't all just me you know, Neville. When you figure out where you stand in all this mess, I'll be there to help you."

It's been years since he's told him that, and he still couldn't grasp the meaning of what he meant.

When he opened his eyes, he was transported back to the same old clarity of the waiting room. Only this time, Neville hadn't realized that there was a nurse waiting on him.

"Mr. Longbottom?" she asked with a smile. "They doctor will see you now."

He had half a mind to tell her something that even he still had trouble coming to terms with. Instead, he stood, dropping the rolled up newsletter onto the chair he had occupied and gave the little boy who had been staring at him a small nod.

Just like all his other appointments, it never came easy reverting back to what he once was.

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 **Author's Note:** I want to put it out there that the dates that are provided are in regards to the events that take place during Neville's appointments with his psychiatrist. They will go in relative order, and eventually end with their current appointment. I'd like to point out that Neville is probably my absolute favorite character as to development and not because he took a magical potion to turn him into the stud he is today. (Who _hasn't_ taken a potion?). I just really respect him. :)

There was a Drabble piece written that would work wonderfully for this short multi-chapter work. I don't know if I'll use it, though.

 **Note 2:** This might be the opposite of what some of my readers are used to in regards to description. That's not what this work will be about. It's not everyone's cup of coffee, so don't be offended if I don't focus on that as much as I do in other works. Thank you!

-Carolare Scarletus


	2. Chapter 2

**May 2, 2004 – August 27, 2004**

"Right this way, sir." she told him. "Mr. Richard's office is right this way."

They descended into purgatory, a lowly place swimming in beast of many creations and walked slowly across the swollen tress of the tunnel. The crumbled foundation for which it was built a thousand years ago had seen so much and fallen several times since its construction. It was in the interim between dusk and dawn that he believed that Hogwarts would never see the light of day again only to be pleasantly surprised when he saw the survivors of such massacre come together, raise their wands, and cast the first of hundreds of charms that would lead them one step close to healing.

The walk from the waiting room to the office was long. Never before has he observed such a cowering sensation, or felt so many pairs of eyes trailing behind him as if there was something sticking to the back of his shirt. He could feel them judging him, like he didn't have the right to come and let all his walls down and someone who could potentially help him recover in. He wanted to stop, turn around and ran back down the hallway and never come back. Only one thing held him in place, guiding him. It was every person that he ever lost that propelled him forward.

He could feel the walls moving on its own accord. One of the lights above was flickering. It made it even harder to concentrate on his pace, the direction of his walk. He could feel his loved one forming around him and all was suddenly bad.

Neville had a feeling that washed over him, and he didn't like it.

With a nauseating gulp, he kept his eyes on the woman that was escorting him. He could see the curly tresses spike up like live wire, and he couldn't let go of the feeling that something was terribly off. She turned, and he could have sworn he saw her eyes change color. From brown to that of a snake, she blinked her eyes several times before the deformity was gone and he was in his right mind again.

Ever since the downfall of the Dark Lord, he's been experiencing the most horrific things. Nightmares dominated his night, and paranoia was the monarch of his days. A night didn't go by that he didn't wake up screaming, his body locking up and his jaw setting into an almost permanent clench.

The same words seemed to echo back at him as a reminder.

" _It doesn't matter that Harry's gone," he said protectively. "People die every day. Friends, family. Yeah, we lost harry tonight. But he's still with us, in here." He touched his chest. "…all of them. They didn't die in vain, but you will 'cause you're wrong! Harry's heart did beat for us, for all of us! It's not over."_

 _He drew the Sword of Gryffindor, and just as he was about to strike, Harry's eyes shot open, startling them all._

It's been six years since the Final battle, and Hogwarts was just beginning to look like its glorious self. He berated himself for not being a better solider. It felt as if he was standing on the banks of the Blake Lake again, his hands in his pockets, a nervous twitch worrying his brow. He had just gotten back from a raid in the North, and needed some much needed time to himself. Somehow, this wasn't what he was thinking of, but of course Hogwarts would always be his home, and it was not such a strange occurrence that she would be calling him back. He only listened to her voice because he knew that she would always be there.

"I knew I'd find you here," she said with a faint smile. Hannah Abbott had grown into a treasure of a woman, and he was very fortunate to call her his wife. They have been married for three years, and were in the process of starting a family. Soon, he hoped, her wish would be granted. In the meantime, he was just trying to work on himself before he brought a child into a world that he couldn't even comprehend.

A lot has changed.

Everyone that had made it through went on to marry, begin their lives and invest their time in the choice of employment in hopes to regain some resemblance of control on their lives. Everyone except for him, of course.

He had gone off and signed up to become an Auror, a kind of passion that he never knew he possessed. He supposed it was because his parents were Aurors. After training and a year on the field as a novice, he was able to go on his first solo mission that resulted in the capture of a rogue Death Eater that had been on the run. Although it went smoothly and without trouble, he had the unfortunate pleasure of growing dark and reverting to the hollow of a shell that he once was. Neville has seen more therapists, psychologists, and specialists than one man should be permitted to see. Nothing has worked.

He felt his wife's hands wrap around his waist and he instantly reached for her locked fingers, touching them with mild awareness. His focus had been stolen by the Black Lake as he tried to come to terms with what they were about to attend.

"I have given you has much space as I possibly could." She told him warily. "How much longer are you going to stand here alone?"

"Until after the services." He retorted bitterly. "By then, I hope to regain some inkling of control."

"They'll miss you."

"They can survive an hour without me." He murmured, bringing his hands to hers and removing them gently. It was his way of saying that he truly needed space.

Hannah looked at him imploringly for a moment before her gaze drifted to the Lake. She wasn't going to push him. Not this time.

"You're not a coward," she told him in offering. "No matter what you may think, I don't think you're a coward. You're hurt, torn, broken even. But, you've never been anything less than I see you as."

From the bottom of his heart he wanted to believe her. If it had not been for her and the concern from his childhood friends, he wouldn't have bothered going to see someone to talk to about his problems. He saw his struggles as a depravity. And from that, the onslaughts were triggered.

He blinked. A fast, strangely reassuring action that calmed him down long enough to realize he had arrived at the office of the man that was supposedly going to fix him. If he couldn't, then he would remain broken.

"Right inside, sir. He will be with you in a minute." she told him, and then she was gone.

Neville stared at the place that she once occupied before turning and letting himself in.

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A/N: I meant to update last night, but my Wifi was acting up. Better late than never. Expect another update really soon :)

-CS


	3. Chapter 3

Good news: y'all will definitely get two updates tonight. If I was going to update _something_ this week, it _had_ to be this.

Bad news: **See below.**

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May 2, 1999

He was beginning to lose faith in all omniscient presences. Night after crippling night, Neville's perspective on life started to take a toll on his body until there was nothing but a small fire that lit his dark aisles. He rarely slept, and when he did, his dreams were plagued by nightmares. He grew wary of sleep. The haunted interludes did nothing but jog his memories, images and sounds that he had buried, only to be unearthed by his guilt. He wanted them to stop. But, how do you stop that which you cannot physically see or feel? How does he stop himself from destroying everything?

Neville's screams of agony echoed throughout the small flat. The three-bedroom apartment was laced with all sorts of enchantments to keep the Muggles from becoming alarmed. It seemed to make the terror echo more hauntingly inside the small enclosure, waking the only two restless inhabitants from slumber.

Pulsing spasms coursed through his body. A hand reached out and tried to force his own to lay flat against the mattress. As he fought, he could hear them beg him to stop, to come back from whatever nightmare he was in. Little by little, he began to awaken and when he did, he was met with a familiar sight, illuminated by the torches within their chambers.

They were lying in their marital bed, the spring of contemplation heavy in the air. It wasn't a bad idea. In fact, he would do anything to agree. But, he couldn't. Not because of his pride, but for the simple reason that he didn't understand. He didn't understand why everyone else could be so calm, so oblivious to what happened. Those who stayed for their final year had been tortured, along with those in the lower grades. Snape, someone who they had to confide in after taking over leadership as the Headmaster, had betrayed them. All they had was themselves, and the Golden Trio that had been out there risking their lives to save theirs.

"You were doing it again." His wife told him in a low whisper, her brows furrowed with worry. Even in the dark, the street lights breaking through the curtains, he could make it out. "Screaming, and your body was shaking."

"Anything else?" he asked groggily, feeling the effects of whatever spell she had casted wash over him like a treatment. Her voice rang in his ears. He spoke as if it was the most normal thing to ask. "Besides the norm."

Hannah shook her head," No," she told him slowly. "Though, you were muttering something this time."

"What was it?"

"I don't know." She told him truthfully. "Something about… Harry, I think."

He nodded then before finding the strength and sitting up. Neville let out a groan as all his muscles stretched in and out of place. Yes, it was going to be another long, sleepless night. It was only one in the morning. Guilt settled deep inside of him once again. It was the third time this week that he's woken her up. If he had placed a Silencing Spell around him, then she would have gotten the rest that she deserved. Yet another thing to be ashamed of, he thought.

For one fleeting moment, a single second that they all could relate to, he believed he had lost him. The boy who they all looked up to, who they all _fought_ for. For months during their travels, he never once lost up until that moment where Hagrid was seen carrying the seemingly dead Harry Potter in his arms, surrounded by troves of Deatheaters. Voldemort had been leading the pack, a sneer on his face. He had given reason to a new world order, and as he went around demanding loyalty, Neville stood up and delivered a message that he prayed would rally them all up. It did. And Harry woken.

It was a moment that he would never forget. It was a dream that never once failed to play in his dreams. Had he been given the chance to do it differently, he wouldn't.

"Go back to bed." He told her suddenly, getting up. "I'll go sleep in the study." He was trying to hide the anxiety that was ailing him.

"Are you sure?" she asked.

He rummaged through their dresser until he found a suitable blanket. He waited until he was on her side of the bed. Casting a soft spell, his wand illuminated just enough to see her face. With a goofy smile, Neville leaned in and kissed her. Hannah responded just as lovingly as he did. When they broke, her eyes were watery, as if she was about to cry. "More than sure," he whispered before walking away.

Neville could feel her eyes on him. Just like every other night, he walked away from her embrace, not to disrespect the sanctum of marriage, of trust, but to free himself momentarily from the blame that comprised him.

"Why don't you go see someone about them?" asked Hannah, concern written all over her face. She let the words drift over to him. His thin outline could be seen through the sheen barrier of the night. Sure, she was exhausted, but no more exhausted then he. She was simply worried about her husband. "You need to talk to someone about this other than me."

The words stabbed him right in the heart. Never has such precedence ever cost him this amount of sorrow. It was like all the years prior to the war was crashing down upon him like heavy rain. Years of ridicule, shame, and forgery felt like bullets grazing his already torn skin. He was being wounded by the same curses of his childhood and youth.

Neville looked away from her, not able to bear to look, even in the dark.

Carried by the silence that prevailed, he stood and exited their bedchambers, drifted down the hall, and arrived in the study. There, he entered the room, closed the door behind him and sat down upon the conjured sofa and sighed.

Hannah was only concerned about his wellbeing. If it wasn't for that little fact, his anger would have gotten the best of him.

It was in the time of yearnful reluctance that he found the clearest picture. With the lights turned off and the world around him so quiet, so damn expecting, Neville could contemplate everything that's happened to him. He shuddered at what he saw and he broke out in hot sweats at the scene as it unfolded. Carnage. He has never seen a battlefield as calamitous as that. Blood spilled everywhere as it formed small rivers; broken bodies laid amiss and forgotten where they fell, looking like little specks on the ground; assortment of debris glittered the treasured land in great quantities that it almost made the landscape look as if lost in an ancient collision. Neville was a fool. Memories served to remember the pleasant times, but all he could recollect was the times where he cried himself to sleep, when the pains of the day seeped right into his bones and woke to someone whipping his back or clawing at his limbs.

He immediately opened his eyes, hyperventilating. His breathes were short, and structured with fear. In the back of his mind he knew it was all just a dream, but the fear was setting in. He could still feel their fingers dig into his skin, the whip that they used to torture them strike his bare back, and their wands- instruments used to teach, to guide, to cast- they used their gift in unspeakable ways. They had touched his soul, and tarnished it from the inside out.

He could feel his heart papillating in large bursts. It was as if he were racing some giant creature, trying to get away from its enormous mouth. In any given moment, he would be swallowed up, and spat up again, only to relive the entire affair over again. He was so unbelievably tired. There was nothing in this world that he wouldn't give to feel like a human being again.

There was nothing human about being weak and defenseless.

And, like pieces of glass, he began to break apart.

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 **A/N:** Just so y'all know, I almost cried when I was writing this chapter. If I hadn't been at school at the time of starting this, I would have. I decided to make it a bit longer than I was anticipating, though. It's definitely a topic that I'm sure that everyone has wondered about. Originally, it wasn't supposed to be more than a couple of chapters, and I honestly didn't anticipate it being anything more than a man just trying to figure out where he fit in after all that he's been through. There is no set time when it comes to healing. It happens when it happens.

 **On a non-relevant note:** I have been dealing with a lot of shit at work and school. I've been sick, and called out twice already from work, and they have made me feel so damn terrible. It's not my fault I caught something. I was told specifically that I had to call out if I exhibited any sign of the flu, so what did your girl do? I called in 4-5 hours before my damn shift and they still made me feel like it was my fault -_-. Also, just today (3/1) I had to put in a sexual harassment complaint about a student at the college I attend. This guy has been bothering me since the third week of the semester, and it's gotten to the point where he'll wait on me in the morning, knows where I hang out. Y'all… I'm afraid to even step inside the building where I need to be every morning. He's said things from- are you a good kisser to how are you in bed. I wake up and dread coming to school. So, yeah. I pray that nothing happens beyond this.

Anyway, I hope y'all enjoyed… leave me a review please. I need something to cheer me up.

-Carolare Scarletus


	4. Chapter 4

May 2nd, 2004

"You understand why we're doing this, right?" the boy-who-lived asked, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

Neville looked at him.

They were sitting in one of his rooms in his home. Neville had come over to talk to him about what his wife suggested, confided in him about the nightmares, the pulsating terror that ensued from said discoveries. Little did he know that his childhood friend would turn around and agree; he believed that he would be one of the few people who thought it sounded ludicrous, but he had been wrong. A part of him wanted to scream at the top of his lungs and punch him. Of all people, he would have thought _he_ would understand him. He was wrong.

The War Hero nodded mutely. It was the only thing he could do. He remembered most vividly in that moment of dread and accusation that he was going to fight, even if it killed him. There was nothing wrong with him. As Merlin as his witness, he was going to prove it to them, even if that meant surrendering to weakness.

"Yeah, of course."

"You… haven't been yourself, Neville." Harry told him carefully, gauging his reaction slowly. His eyes roamed over him momentarily before drifting to the pamphlet between them. "I really think this will help. To talk it out with someone, get down to the bottom of it. It will be better if you did."

"I know." He told him with much less assurance and enthusiasm.

Neville stood outside the door with trepidation. His hands were balled up tightly and his breathing was heavy. In the back of his mind, he could still hear the conversation that had played between them. He had been suspicious for a while, but though the subject of the manner did not include any life-threatening addiction to drugs or alcohol, he didn't understand why his friends and family was subjecting him to such a demeaning thing as an intervention. He didn't understand their reasoning for suggesting that he see a doctor. If anything, it only angered and hurt him even more that they would even suspect that he had a problem. They went through the same war as he did, dealt with the same asinine problems and conflicting circumstances that inevitably lead him to this truth. They though there was something seriously wrong with him, otherwise they wouldn't be wasting their time.

There was something wrong with him, if his mind was in the right state. If he knew any better, Harry was dealing with the same troubling woes as he was. They all were. Harry was just better at dealing with his afflictions. Neville didn't understand.

In the lonely corridor, he made his decision. Stealing himself, the War Hero found the courage and opened the door to the office, taking note of the strange, unnerving calmness that filtered through its ordinary ruins.

The door closed softly behind him, giving him a small amount of time to comb through the room and find any items of any significance. He's never been in a psychiatrist's office, so he didn't know what to expect. The room was moderately large, with a wooden desk in the middle, two identical seats in the middle. While doting on the idea on bolting, a thought came to mind.

He had to get out.

For some unexplainable reason, he felt the need to just leave. To give up on any idea of rescue. A part of him wanted to see what the doctor would have to say, the other retaliated against any inkling of knowledge.

Itching his wrist, he went around the room in small, circular steps. He eyed the tapestry, the awards. Evidently, whoever this infamous doctor was, he had given in life to research and the medical field so much so that he was awarded for his time. Much like he had been given a token of Merlin Second Class for serving in a war, this man was given a trophy as well for the same exact thing.

If he looked carefully, he could make out the dates that he supposedly served, as well as some minor little details that became no importance to him.

He didn't know much about Muggles. Sure, he was friends with Muggleborns, but he has never sat down and discussed anything that would be of any use. Their lives were a mystery, but something about this doctor made his mind tick and his heart skip beats. It was as if, somehow, he understood. He could relate to him if he would give himself a chance to talk to him. If the coin on his desk had anything to do with the feeling, Neville was certain that, perhaps, something revealing would come of this meeting.

"Impressive, yes?" a voice said suddenly behind him.

Neville didn't even flinch when he heard the voice of what he expected was his psychiatrist. Slowly, the wizard turned around, breaking contact with the single item that lay on his desk. He was a nervous wreck on the inside, but a pliant soldier on the outside. This hardened resolve didn't even deter the doctor. A small smile on his face that almost seemed to reach the glasses he wore. His hair was thin, and slicked to one side with a small amount of gel, and his attire was less than stellar. He was a normal looking middle-aged man without a care in the world.

"There are so many of them," Neville observed. "How did you get all these."

"Well," he said rather cordially," if I were to be honest with you, most of those are awards I obtained through school, some are from accomplishments that I have achieved throughout my career. The rest, well, are souvenirs."

Neville stiffened a little at his statement. His rigid body was on high alert, but relaxed once the man came around to pick up one of his awards."

"Vietnam," he told him without a beat. "My father served in that war, and shortly after it we moved here to London. I was six at the time, if that's what you're wondering. The rest of them are mine."

He looked between the medals and awards, and was still drawn back to the small coin placed on his desk.

"The coin too?" Neville asked curiously.

The man arched an eyebrow," Ah, yes. That too," he said dismissively. "About that coin, that is a whole different story."

He picked him up gently, looked at it for a second, and placed it into his pant pocket. With an indignant sigh, he turned to Neville and smiled.

"Sounds like a long one."

"Terribly so," he said truthfully, pain evident in his eyes. He watched the older man walk away, settling on a small bag that he had brought in. It was a wonder that he didn't hear him come in considering out loudly he rummaged through his drawers, taking out a notepad and what looked like a pencil. "I'm normally not this unprepared. You will have to forgive me, I just finished a lecture and rushed over as soon as I was able to. Anyway, care to take a seat? I assume we have much to discuss. With all the formalities and all, I must introduce myself. I'm Doctor John Richards, and I will be your supervising psychiatrist during the duration of your appointments."

"You say that as if I'll come back," Neville shot out angrily. He didn't mean for his words to sound so harsh.

Dr. Richards furrowed his brows for a second, conflicted. "I suppose you have that right. However, I always find something interesting during my initial introductions. Surely, you're not afraid of a little prying."

"No, but I am afraid of what you might find out."

He smiled softly, shook his head, and looked at him. "If that's what you're afraid of, I believe the revelations you will reach will frighten you even more."

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 **A/N:** I think… I like the way this is playing out. As promised, I _finally_ delivered! It's storming here in the south, soooo~ I had to wait a while to publish this chapter. The next one is well underway, so hopefully another update will come shortly :)

(Psst... I'm really on a roll! 3)

As stated before, this is going to be a longer fic than I ever imagined. With that warning, the chapters will get progressively longer. (between 1500-3000). It honestly depends on the topic and what happens during the particular chapter.

-Carolare Scarletus


	5. Chapter 5

_As always, enjoy._

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A steady beat of classical music began to play.

Neville was unaccustomed to what the Muggle doctor meant by what he said. The frightening terrors boiled over inside him and it took all but his remaining strength and stubbornness to vanquish the demons that lurked within his being. He was being lead right into a trap. Unconvinced by the nonchalant disposition, the war hero followed the doctor in an unhurried fashion, one he found absurd against his unrealistic morals. Time and patience would only tell.

The inside of the doctor's chambers was dank. Through an almost candle-lit candescence, he was welcomed to a lovely armchair equipped with cushioned seats. A tray of biscuits and warm tea awaited him for his consumption.

"Is this normal?" he asked suspiciously as he watched the man busy himself with commitments. Nevillle was apprehensive about the entire thing. As he tried to get comfortable with the man's strange writing utensil scribbling across a piece of parchment, Mr. Richards looked at him. He was still standing. "I mean, I've never done this before. Is it supposed to go this way?"

"Of course you haven't, my boy!" he said, almost forgetting something. "Why don't you start off by telling me your name?" he told him in the calmest voice. "Your name, your interests. It's customary in this situation. Whatever will make you comfortable."

He paused then. "Please, take a seat."

Neville did as he was told. He sat ensconced in one of the faux leather seats and watched as the other man took a seat in front of him. Neville eyed the biscuits suspiciously before bending over and grabbing one. He took one bite of the dry, stale treat and willed it down his throat. The tea wasn't any better.

"It's strange," he said truthfully, feeling absurdly uncomfortable. He frowned at the statement. He was quite sure that he had already deduced that. If not, then he would soon.

The man looked up from his clipboard and gave him a smile. He had settled himself quite nicely. "Of course it is." Then he paused again. "Your name?"

"Neville." he said in a small voice. "Neville Longbottom."

It felt so wrong to tell him something as simple as his name. As if he didn't know. His image was in every issue of the Prophet; his name has been dazzled with all sorts of intriguing titles that it would be odd of someone not to have notice.

"Well, Neville, it's an honor to meet you." Again, he smiled and the more he did it the more it made the Wizard suspicious. "I don't come across a lot of war heroes. How many years did you serve?"

"Too many to count."

It had taken a great deal of pain and persuasion, but the War Hero had finally come to the conclusion that something was wrong. He couldn't place the misconstrued feeling of disturbance, the haunting nightmares, the aches and pain. At first he thought it had something to do with the casualties; there had been so many lives lost during the course of the final years of the war, and he supposed he wasn't quite over those who had fallen.

He could still hear their cries, taste the metallic perception of blood.

Something told him that wasn't the problem.

There had to be a deeper meaning to what he was facing. He needed to know.

In his hand was a small metal badge, the colors of bravery variably gold. He had gotten it shortly after the final battle. Order of Merlin, Second Class. It had to mean something, right?

"Tell me why you're here."

"Something's wrong with me."

"Can you be more specific?"

Neville wanted to shake his head. Something about revealing his problem was inadvertently gnawing on his insides. He was about to confess something to some Muggle doctor that he never got around to telling those who adored and loved him. Someone who didn't deserve to be subjected to his pain, the Gryffindor didn't thing he was certified to listen to what he had to say.

Mirroring a fish, he opened his mouth several times but the words never seemed to surface right. Eventually, he gave up. Mr. Richards leaned back in his chair.

"It seems that you have a bit of stipulation that prevents you from telling me what's wrong."

"Yeah, well, anyone with a doctrine could deduce that," the boy growled. "I want to know why it's happening to me."

"Well," he began, not the least bit concerned by his passive ignorance," I suspect it has something to do with the war. I may be ordinary, but I've had all walks of life come through my clinic. Why don't you tell me about that time?"

"I hardly think-"

"It will most certainly help." He assured him gently. Again, the comfort in which he took from sitting was startling. He looked at ease despite the subject of his appointment. "If you don't talk about these things, Neville, they will coalesce inside of you and wreak havoc on your life. And, it's in my professional opinion that it already has. Do you suffer from nightmares, Mr. Longbottom?"

"Every night." He was too stunned to say anything more. "I don't know why it happens or what causes it, but I suffer from nightmares every night."

Mr. Richards nodded slowly then began to take quick notes of what they discussed so far.


	6. Chapter 6

_As always, enjoy._

* * *

Never in his wildest imagination did he ever think he would have to describe the sights. Even then, it was hard for him, not matter how much the doctor tried to play it. All nightmares, as he stated previously, must have an origin. An idea in which to take form from. Unfortunately, his did not. Or, perhaps, he just didn't know. The nightmares began innocent enough, until it ugly head reared itself every time he dived into sleep. It never came pleasantly; he would lay there, waiting. When his eyes grew heavy with sleepiness, he knew that it had come.

"Why don't we start by when they first started."

"It was some time after the war. It hadn't been six months when they started, startling my wife with the intensity of it, neither of us didn't know what to make of it. At first, I thought it was because of the guilt. I mean, I lived, while others… lost their lives." Muggles and Muggleborns, they all suffered and something about being a Pureblood and living didn't sit well with the hero. Then again, not a lot of things did. "It felt so wrong to be among the living. So much blood shed, the mayhem… I kinda lost track of who I really was after a while. Lost sight of what I believed in."

"And, that troubles you why?"

"Because," he sounded resolute with the words. "I hadn't always been this brave." Neville's eyebrows twitched as all the memories weaved themselves together, forming a blanket in which he used to relate. "Hell, I doubt I ever was until then. _That_ moment. There had been a moment that I'll never forget. It was like silence itself had become silent. Time wad infinite, and not just some profound tale. I dunno how to explain it."

He was referring to when Hagrid came to them with Harry in his arms. The driving force behind the all the madness. Where Voldemort slowly turned to reap the passage of victory. He had been their guidance, their prevailing light; how else was he to react to the shocking truth that their friend had died?

That was another feeling that Neville couldn't explain. Seeing his friend lifeless had stirred something within him. Suddenly, he wasn't just fighting for himself, wasn't being tortured and beaten just for him. He was fighting a cause for _himself_. By himself. No one else's battle.

That's when he realized where he stood in all the mess. He followed him for a reason.

With devoted sickness.

And his faithfulness astounded.

To which gave birth to the dawn of an era, and forged him further. As shocking as the news came, he never once gave up hope. Drawing the Sword of Gryffindor like a life line, he was prepared to strike at a second's decision. He had been called out by the victor, encompassing even his darkest of fears.

"I never really thought a lot about it since then," confessed Neville, slumping back in the chair as he stared into nothingness. His tea had long since been washed down with another handful of biscuits. Even now it didn't seem real. "Years it went on. Several long years, and in that moment, everything just broke and fell into shambles. I felt that everything that we worked hard for- all the blood and gore and killing- had literally been just for this moment. Setting us up for failure, I suppose you can call it. If failure meant anything at that point."

"Did it?"

He waved his hand dismissively. "I had acted out of anger, out of pure and irrational anger. When I went up and-"Neville stopped there, fearing that he said too much. With a quick, hesitant look, he watched as a flicker of emotions crossed his doctor's face. He said nothing as he took his notes. "It never got easy, seeing the images play in my mind over and over again like some horrid ballet. Sometimes I wonder if going to war was even the right idea. But, knowing that if I had hide and became the coward that I once was, it would have mustered inside of until it came a toxic brew that even I couldn't handle."

If curiosity killed the cat, he would have been dead by now.

Neville threw everything he had said to out the door. He wanted to know what he was writing, but kept the urge to himself when the doctor continued to write, saying nothing.

Silence was a deadly killer

All he could do was sit there and count the seconds as they ticked by. He knew it was a horrid habit, but his brain was not wired well enough to know that it was.

One…two…three

He massaged the cloth between his thumb and forefinger, smoothing the material down to calm himself. A nerve tick had begun to irritate his eye, and he did very well to conceal it from the man in front of him.

Two…three…four

It was unbearable. That pattern continued to play in the back of his mind.

This was how it always started. In pairs. One being the first to manifest, then two and three until a whole visualized army was playing on his mind.

Neville had talked to the doctor for nearly an hour before he suddenly stopped writing, took off his glasses, and folded them at the point where the bridge of the nose would have laid. He was looking at him in the surest of manner, trying to come up with an early diagnosis for what was causing his nightmares. His questions were too personal; what he asked stepped over any boundary of what another individual was allowed to know, doctor or otherwise. He had asked about his childhood, whether he had been abused or neglected or worse. To his surprise, he was truthful with his answers. For the most part, at least. He didn't need to know about the magic.

"You seem to have had a normal adolescence." He told him after some time, keeping of the number of dots on the ceiling in his head. "Normal school life."

"Which part?" he asked complacently. Though, there was a slight intimation of humor. "The bullying, the constant teasing and feeling of incompletion?"

Mr. Richards offered a smile. "I suppose all of it. Though, I still don't quite understand. Why is that you didn't feel complete as a child? Was there something… missing from your life?"

"My parents…" he started, brow furrowing in pain. "They… weren't in the picture. I was raised by my Gran and expected more of me than I could have possibly offered her. My whole family seemed to have expected more, but they got… _me_. I felt more like a disappointment rather than a grandson or nephew. I felt like an outcast."

Neville didn't mention the part where he had to be flung out the window by his uncle to see if there was any spark of magic. He simply redirected his answer in another way.

"Needless to say, I didn't have a single person that I could rely on until I went to school; the bullying continued, as I'm sure you know. But, I made friends. I had _friends_." Neville shook his head, hardly containing the excitement that his eleven-year-old self-had during which he had been sorted into Gryffindor and eventually made himself a little group of acquaintances he could relate to. It was coming through to his adult self. Ones that made Potion's bearable, McGonagall's leering gaze less frightening. But, that still didn't settle the rising bubble that was doubt.

Even he couldn't seem to explain it.

"What do you think it is?" asked the young man.

Mr. Richards shrugged, looked up at the clock and said, "I'll let you decide for yourself. As for now, we'll draw this session to a close and start it back up at another date. That is, if you want to."

Of course, he wanted to.

The way he ended the session so abruptly was playing on Neville's mind and nerves that he would have no choice but to come back and find out what he meant by what he said. As they stood and walked to the door, he decided right then and there to ask him again what he thought it was.

"There is no telling, Mr. Longbottom." The older gentleman said with a little sigh. "A war hero with nightmares. It's not uncommon. I'm just trying to piece it together. Plus, it's only been the first session. We still have a couple more before we can start piecing together what is causing the nightmares. Though, I do suspect that it has something to do with the war you were in. Until then, farewell."

Neville never felt so terrible.

Reluctantly, he left the office without another word, and when he got home in time to see his wife appear through the hearth, he kissed her and went about his nightly routine as if nothing ever happened and he wasn't completely torn by the doctor's words. He lay awake that night, thinking.

There had to be something in his childhood that would cause such insecurities.

He was determined to find out what that was.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** I tried to make this chapter as long as I could, but there was a constant theme that presented itself during writing, and I wanted to get it onto paper before proceeding with the next chapter. Hopefully I will have that up shortly. I fully intend to finish this before I write another fic like this. Ah, repugnant plot bunnies! And, I had the cutest Drarry one in mind! :D

 **Chapter Note:** Can anyone guess who Mr. Richards might be, or as to his time in the war? :) It's okay if y'all guess correctly. You'll hold witness to the sort of dreams that Neville must suffer through in the next chapter. As stated above, I hope I can write, edit, and publish it before the day's end! If not, there is tomorrow!

 **On another note:** While working just last night, my manager came across a cute kitten, obviously without food or shelter. Being the animal-loving person I am, I offered to watch it (because it hisses at me when I come near. So, I really don't know). After a few suggestions, my co-worker and I decided to call it Chicken Nugget to which she ate from her hands and because it is fast as hell. Needless to say, I love working where I work.

P.S: Its meows are ceaseless and its too curious for its own good!

-CS


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